


Ship Amnesty Night

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:19:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The results when I opened up my askbox and asked people to submit 'that one ship you're ashamed to admit you ship'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Ages

His voice rang out like a great iron bell; deep and full of majesty.   
  
_"Luthien, daughter of -"_  
  
"Do be quiet," Luthien said with annoyance, tilting her head back to look at him. "I came here to negotiate, not to listen to bad love poetry."  
  
The End of Days has made this place a great plain; the earth is already so broken, and where mountains once reared their proud heads water now laps only a few feet away from their feet. But Luthien stands here, small and bright with her long dark hair down to her feet, calm and unimpressed; the ages have not changed her.   
  
Melkor laughs a little to hide his discomfort, and as he paces towards her shrinks down into a form not much taller than she. If there is any consolation for these end-days, it is that - that he can change shape at will again, as if he were finally able to put off a heavy cloak and change his clothes when he wished.   
  
"Then I will speak plainly." He came to a halt in front of her. The white flag he has planted in the sand snaps and shudders in the sudden wind, and he wonders if the Valar are watching. "I once saw you... and misjudged you."  
  
How he cursed himself for that! If only he had seen the true worth of the girl then, would he have been able to persuade her to his side?   
  
"I would not make the mistake of doing so now." He poured all the persuasive power he could into his voice, leaning towards her and catching her eyes with his. "You are worth far more than to be the toy of any Vala. And fighting on their side, that is all you are to them."   
  
The winds of the world whistled around them, but Melkor easily raised his voice above them, and Luthien did not even flinch at the sting of the gale.   
  
"Come to me now, fair Luthien - nay, more than fair; great Luthien. Come to me and you shall be a Queen, lovely and terrible. Bind your hair with shadow; you should have dragons to serve you and to ride to battle upon, and I would take a Silmaril from the burning heart of the earth to ornament your brow."   
  
He reached out to her, letting his voice drop to a sweet murmur. "You need not love me; you may decide in your own time what you wish. But be my general, and the world shall bow at your feet."  
  
Luthien's breath rushed through her parted lips, her grey eyes fixed on his; and for a moment he thought he had ensnared her.   
  
Then she laughs, tossing her head, and her hair ripples over her like a cloak as the winds begin to still.   
  
"Sweet words from a black mouth, Belekoroz." And the sound of his Valarian name on her tongue - how did she know? - left him speechless. "I have power enough of my own; I have a husband and children and grandchildren - great-grandchildren, and their children! I have everything I need. I will not sacrifice that to give you one of the many things that you lack."  
  
And she reaches out and plucks the white flag from the sand, making a mocking salute with it, before turning and walking towards the smudge on the horizon that is the great camp she came from. Melkor watched her go, gritting his teeth and weighing the odds of capturing or killing her before she got out of range; finally, he shakes his head and turns back toward his own camp. Perhaps there is still time to sway her.   
  
It occurs to him half an hour later that she stole his flag from under his nose and he had not even noticed.


	2. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feanaro and Artanis, and a rather inappropriate request.

When Artanis felt someone's hand wind in her hair, she thought it might be one of her cousins, or one of the lovesick boys who often followed her about. Either way, she turned around ready to give out a stern reprimand, perhaps accompanied by a slap - and perhaps it would have been better if her hand had gone its course. 

Instead, she gaped, her hand falling to her side. "Uncle?"

Fëanáro looked at her distantly, as if seeing through her and into something greater; but then his eyes cleared and he smiled. "Forgive me," he said, his tone as corteous as his actions were not. "But your hair... It catches the light from the Trees in such a beautiful way." 

To her further shock, he slid his thumb over the lock of hair he held, as if testing the strength or texture; she could feel the shiver of the slight pull up through her scalp. 

"Thank you, but I'll have to ask you to let go of it!" she said sharply, narrowing her eyes at him. Do you forget that I am your brother's daughter? she wanted to ask - but what he had done would be improper even if she was not, so she held her tongue.

Fëanáro's smile faded a little, but he released her hair and bowed his head in apology, much to her relief - and suspicion. She had spent little time with her uncle, but she knew he was not easy to sway, or to get an apology from. 

"Forgive me," Fëanáro said softly; but gave her a last strange look before he turned and went on his way, and suddenly Artanis felt unsafe, sitting in the light of the Trees. 

She did not mention Fëanáro's strange behavior when she went home; she was not certain, yet, it was anything to be worried about. 

~

The next time he approached her, she felt as if she might be going mad. Every time they had chanced to meet in the past several weeks, Fëanáro's eyes had inevitably gone to her - when he was speaking on completely unrelated topics with her father, when she saw him on the street, and she had begun to feel certain he was seeking her out expressly to make her uncomfortable.

So when he began speaking, Artanis listened with a frown on her face from the start, and said "No," firmly before he was even done. 

Fëanáro looked at her in blank puzzlement for a moment, as if he could not understand the denial; then he frowned. 

"Why do you respond so quickly? It is a great matter, Artanis; when I saw your hair in the light of the Trees, it - stirred something in me. It is a matter of a work of art perhaps more beautiful than any before -"

Artanis got up from the bench where she sat, shutting her book with a snap.

"No, Uncle. It is a matter of my hair, and I do not care to give you a lock of it."

She brushed past him without speaking further.

~

The second time, he spoke with far more sweetness, making small talk at first - although Artanis could easily tell what he was after, and she stirred uncomfortably at the way his eyes flickered hungrily towards the braid that hung over her shoulder. 

She gave as short answers as she could; it would not do to be rude to her uncle, and the lord of a great house, in public - but there was something about the way he spoke, the way he looked at her, that made her wish they were not alone. 

Finally, he got to the point. 

"If you gave me a lock of your hair - nay, not even a lock, a single strand..." He looked at her with storm-grey eyes and she caught her breath, enmeshed for the moment in the wonderful persuasive power he held. "I would be able to capture the beauty of the Trees, somehow. I feel it. It would be my greatest work of art."

"I..." She fidgeted. He made her uncomfortable - they had spoken rather little before - but having attention so powerful focused on her was strangely heady. And he seemed to sense her hesitation; he went to his knees, looking up at her pleadingly. 

"Just one strand..." he said, his rich voice drawn out enticingly. "I would make you jewels in payment for it, the color of your eyes. Or ornaments of silver and gold, mingled to match your hair as near as I may."

Artanis had to admit a slight warm feeling blossomed within her; what girl would not be flattered at Fëanáro's attention? Perhaps she might have been swayed. But the slight weight on her knee as his hand settled upon it brought her harshly back to reality, as she recalled why all this seemed familiar. 

"This is - this is not right," she blurted out, rising to her feet and shaking off his grip. 

He got to his feet, face darkening. "What do you mean?"

"Uncle, I have seen you plead with Nerdanel thus!" she said, not looking directly at him; there was a flush in her cheeks, she knew. "I am your niece; you should not speak to me so passionately."

And she should not have felt so fascinated by his attention, she berated herself. "Goodbye, uncle," she said quickly; as if repeating her relation to him would banish the strange tension between them. 

There was a moment when she thought Fëanáro might not move aside; but after a long moment's hesitation he did, although he still frowned. 

"You are as cruel as you are beautiful, Artanis."

"I deny you nothing that should ever be yours," she said sofly, and went from the place on swift feet. 

~

She did not go to her bench in the light of the Trees after that, and she hated him for that, that she was denied her pleasure of going to read there. But when they met - and they seemed to meet more and more often, Fëanáro finding every little excuse to speak to her - he was nothing short of charming, so pleasant that her father shook his head and finally asked her what she had done to him. 

Artanis muttered under her breath that she wished whatever she had done could be undone; but there was little she could do. Fëanáro's actions had been strange, but not so improper she could accuse him outright, and she was not about to cut her hair short or start hiding from him. 

And as every exchange passed, she found herself unwillingly drawn to him. They met well in debate, and he treated her indeed as if she were a woman of equal age and standing as he - there was no touch of fondness and indulgence as there often was from her other uncle. If that had its drawbacks, she found herself thinking, it at least had benefits for a brief time at least to balance those out. 

~ 

The third time he asked her, he did not even bother with preamble. It only took for them to be alone, in a sitting-room one evening (Findaráto had been last to leave, bundled off by Tyelkormo and Curufinwë, and she wondered if it had been planned) and he went to his knees before her with an air about him that she felt her skin prickle at the intensity of. 

"Lady," he said, "you know what I ask." And this time he did not promise her gold or silver or jewels, pretty trinkets, but cut to the heart of her desires - that must have been his purpose, she thinks, talking with her so long and often.

"Whatever work I will create will be to your glory," he presses. "You will be known as my muse. And if some think that odd, what of it? All would be dazzled by what you had inspired, and that amazement would be yours in part." His hand rested lightly on her knee again, his grey eyes raised to her; part beseeching, part full of fiery promise. "I will do you much honor," he says at last, softly. "The power of what I create, I would share with you - or I would pay you with anything else you ask."

His voice faded to a whisper, and Artanis found herself lifting a hand - having him kneeling at her feet made it sound so natural - and placing it on his head. His black hair was soft beneath her fingers, and Fëanáro studied her with an unreadable expression before lowering his head under the barest pressure of her hand. 

Artanis' breath rushed out in a soft gasp as his lips pressed against her thigh; even through the layers of fine cloth, they burnt like a brand. And for a moment she was seized with a rush of images - of Fëanáro bare of his fine clothes, letting her pin him beneath her as she made him cry out her name, of the two of them sated with slow-burning pleasure, lying together skin to skin, and Fëanáro combing a lock of her hair through his fingers.

With a hiss she broke free from the vision. She did not know whether Fëanáro had induced it or if it was a glimpse of a future might-to-be; but she could not let it happen. There was a terrible sense of foreboding about it. And -

"I told you," she said, although taking her hand from his hair and standing is one of the harder things she has done, "you should not speak to me that way," and for the third time she leaves him, this time still kneeling, looking after her with slightly narrowed eyes. 

~

"Three of them?" her father is saying to Fëanáro, some time later. "Is the number significant?"

"Perhaps to me," Fëanáro says vaugely, and Artanis refuses to turn and look at him.


	3. Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested - 'Maedhros is banished to Middle-Earth after his death and winds up in Lothlórien, developing a crush on Galadriel'.

He wondered if the Valar had factored this in, when they set out his punishment; that he should be forced to accept the too-kind hospitality that Lothlórien offered. 

Perhaps they had - for where else was Maedhros, tall and grim of face and still with Valinor's light in his eyes, despite all that had passed, to go? The Eldar had retreated to these few small pockets of land; he did not know where his brothers were, if indeed they had been punished the same way he had (it does not stop him from seeking out every scrap of news he can find, wondering if he should hear of a strange hunter in the woods or an unusually talented smith in some distant town, or perhaps a wandering musician with sad eyes). 

His hand was regrown. Useful, at first, for navigating the high walkways of Caras Galadhon (such a strange place, warm and light when his memories were filled with icy cold or, at the last, burning heat); but he soon discovered he could not always depend on it for balance, as at a dark memory or black mood it could spasm, his arm tightening and shivering as if ensuring his hand had truly returned. And there would likely be nobody to help him if he fell - he was avoided, not against his wishes, by almost all who lived in Lothlórien. 

"Are you lonely?" Artanis had asked him. 

No, he had told her, he was not. It was kind of her to ask. 

"Has anyone mistreated you?"

No, the people here did not do anything worse than leave him alone, and maybe cast a worried look or two. And how could he blame them for that, after Doriath and the Havens of Sirion? The sons of Feanor had never brought any good to peaceful places. 

Artanis - Galadriel now, most called her - still sought him out sometimes, to give him a book or suggest some other thing he could fill the time with. 

"I worry for you," she told him, and there was truth in her words. He wondered if that was in the nature of all Finarfin's children - to temper steel with sweetness, to be too forgiving of the sons of Feanor. (To capture their love). 

He wondered many other things as well; how Artanis and Celeborn, who she looked at with so much love, had met - how they had come to this place, learned the language, gained the people's trust - why her voice was soft now, and she dressed in white as one of their cousins had long ago. They could, if he wished, talk for hours upon the past. 

Maedhros considers himself at least kind enough to not speak with her long. She has built a place here of gold and silver trees; and he is nothing but a shadow, no matter how tall a shadow, of the past.


	4. nighttime disturbance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maeglin is a difficult bedfellow (and all of them know they're living on borrowed time).

It has taken five months to convince him to sleep in the same bed as them, eliminating every excuse he could make; and on the first night they find out why he protested. 

When Tuor struggles bleary-eyed out of sleep Idril is already in action, arms around Maeglin, who is shuddering like a sapling struck with an ax. His eyes are wide, but do not seem to see anything. 

"A nightmare, I think," she says briefly, worried eyes focused on her cousin. Tuor moves awkwardly, unsure of what to do; sitting up, he reaches out to touch Maeglin's shoulder, only to snatch it back when another convulsive shudder ran through the elf's body. 

Idril bent her golden head over Maeglin's, and Tuor heard her whispering - wake up, it's all right, you're safe - and Maeglin stirred a little and spoke in a small voice. It was Quenya, and Tuor could not understand it, but Idril bit her lip. 

"No," she said gently, "it's me. Itarillë, Maeglin - do you remember?"

A short silence; then - "Itarillë?" Maeglin said, the shaking in his body subsiding bit by bit. It was the first time Tuor had heard them use Idril's father-name in a while, and it made him feel not a little excluded; but he did not, in truth, know what to do, so he curled his hands against the coverlet in discomfort and watched the two elves. 

Maeglin looked up at Idril, his eyes clearing finally, and reached up to touch her face - there was quiet desperation in his fingers, as he traced the outlines of her cheekbones and slid a lock of her golden hair through his hand, as if trying to memorize her, burning away some other image in his mind. Idril held still, blue eyes fixed on him with quiet worry, only flicking up to meet Tuor's once. 

"Idril," Maeglin said finally, and Tuor let out his breath - he was more himself again. Especially evident, he noted, with the shame that was flooding into Maeglin's dark eyes, the way he was shifting back from Idril. 

He moved closer, confident he could do that now, and caught one of Maeglin's sharp shoulders in his broad palm, keeping Maeglin from pulling away from them any more. 

"It's all right," he said, although he had woken up from his fair share of nightmares in the past and knew that it wouldn't seem that way. He pressed a kiss to Maeglin's neck. "We're here."

Maeglin still trembled slightly when they touched him, but responded to Tuor's kisses and Idril's caresses with a hunger that almost disturbed them, in how feverish it was. Still, once they had all been satisfied again, he fell asleep almost immediately; and Tuor noted with relief that his face was more peaceful now. 

"What did he call you?" he asked Idril in a whisper, linking his fingers with hers over the awkward curve of Maeglin's hip. 

She hesitated; but they had to work together, in the end, for every inch of ground they gain with him, and she knew that. 

"He said... 'mother'. I think it was just that he was dreaming of the past..."

Tuor refrained from frowning; he did not want to worry her, and settled for gathering both of them closer instead. Idril sighed, looking up at him before closing her eyes. 

"I wish he would tell us more."

But Tuor, who knew a little more about shame and secrets and wants you could not explain (who had more than once heard things Maeglin would never admit to saying when they were twined together in bed), said nothing.


	5. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annatar, Celebrimbor and the first morning after. For partyingardathanyou, who requested an awkward virgin Celebrimbor.

A feather-thin line of bright sunlight fell across Celebrimbor's eyes, making him wince at the brightness. From somewhere near him, he heard a hiss of annoyance, and to his relief the sunlight was blotted out; with a pleased sigh, he began to settle back into sleep. Someone was stroking his hair, and it felt nice. 

Of course, he usually didn't make a habit of sleeping with other people in his room.

His eyes flying open, he struggled to a sitting position; Annatar shifted backwards a little so as not to be knocked off the bed, and frowned at him. 

"I was hoping you'd sleep longer..."

Everything else postponed for a moment at the mention of his schedule, Celebrimbor reached for the curtain and pulled it back. Full sun was streaming down on the courtyard; it had to be near to noon, at least. He hadn't overslept this badly for years. 

But Annatar put a hand out to stop him when he turned to leave the bed, and reached over him to pull the curtain back in place. The room was plunged back into a comfortable gloom. 

"I'm late for everything I planned!" Celebrimbor protested. 

Annatar looked at him with amusement in his eyes. "I took the liberty of rearranging your day. I can be very persuasive when I need to be... and after last night, you needed the rest."

Memories came sliding back with an almost audible thump. 

Celebrimbor swallowed, sat back on the bed, and reflexively checked to see if the sheet was covering him halfway-decently. 

"You don't need to bother," Annatar said, a trace of laughter in his voice. "I've seen it, haven't I?"

"I..." Celebrimbor adjusted the sheet nervously, not sure what else to do with his hands. Last night was rushing through his mind again in a wild mix of sights, sounds and images. 

Annatar's warm smile, the slow burn of mead on his tongue, and - had it really been him who had pushed Annatar against the wall, who had kissed him first, so hungrily? Everything Annatar had done had seemed maddening, he recalled, little gestures and glances designed to make the fire in Celebrimbor burn ever fiercer; a passion he had little felt and certainly not sated before. 

Of course, Annatar had taken charge when they had reached the bed... Celebrimbor realized that he was staring off into space, turning red, and Annatar was still waiting for him to speak, and cleared his throat. 

"I'm sorry if I - troubled you..." he said, uncertain. For all the vivid images from the night before, sensations that made his body tremble at the memory of them, it was very hard to believe in Annatar, bright-eyed and golden and red and wearing only an open green robe, in his bed, looking at him with such warmth. 

Annatar closed his eyes, sighing briefly. 

"Save me from your unfailing modesty..." he muttered, then looked straight at Celebrimbor. "Do I look put-upon in any way?"

Celebrimbor dared to look at him for more than a moment, and his breath caught in his mouth. If there was any difference, it was that Annatar glowed; eyes like fitful embers, a subtle light to his skin, hair that stirred so gracefully with his movements it seemed like a living thing. Some ingrained ideas of modesty tried to keep his eyes from straying downwards, but he feared Annatar would laugh again; and so he glanced over his body as well, taking in the view of well-muscled arms and smooth skin with a nervous swallow.

"No," he managed to say.

Annatar laughed again despite that, and moved closer. He smelled like wood-smoke and cinnamon, Celebrimbor's reasonable mind noted; the rest of his mind and his body were too busy freezing in place to notice much of anything. 

"I told you last night that I would teach you that you were desirable," Annatar said softly. "Must I remind you of every point I made?"

The calluses on his fingertips were warm against Celebrimbor's forearm. Celebrimbor found himself smiling uncertainly; there really was no reason to be so nervous, was there? He had been worried and awkward, but Annatar certainly didn't seem to mind. 

"Maybe later," he said, still not bold enough to make a move on his own, his voice not too loud; but judging by the glitter in Annatar's eyes, his new lover didn't seem to mind.


	6. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir is not acquainted with desire, but Haleth is... unusual.

He might have been quicker to guess her intention if he were human, Caranthir considered afterwards. As it was… he felt little desire for certain things during times of war, his body reacting to his stress and trying to prevent the fathering of children he might not live to take care of (not that he had ever been successful in fathering a child, even in times of peace).

Haleth, however, was only a few steps into her tent before she began kicking off her boots, stripping off her muddied outer garments. The look she had given Caranthir could not be misinterpreted, even by one as unused to getting them as he.

(His wife had never looked at him with that raw desire; only disappointment, because she had married a son of Fëanáro, and had never really wanted him, surly and awkward and untalented and unlovely compared to his brothers)

The muddied darkness of his thoughts was broken into when Haleth put her hands on his chest and looked up at him with frank, searching interest. She was small, and had she been better-fed would have been a girl of soft curves and dimpled smiles; but she was hollowed with more than one kind of hunger, a woman with eyes so bright he wondered if the light of Valinor could give his any strength to compare, and her gaze stripped him.

“What do you want?” he asked, although the pretext that he doesn’t know what she asked him into her tent for is made even more thin by the stutter in his voice.

“You, idiot,” she replied, and for a moment he saw a flicker of how she might have been - a grin, a shadow of a dimple, and her hands seemed playful and caressing as they slid up to his shoulders.

But it did not last - could not. Haleth was made knife-edged by the hardship she had suffered, and on his knees before her Caranthir felt that he finally perceived one of the gifts of men - to be shaped, to change themselves in a mere breath of time. If Haleth had been of the Eldar, Caranthir would have thought her of Fingolfin’s folk that had seen the Helacaraxë; but she was young for all her hardness, and her term of leadership so far had been brief.

She took to commanding well, though.

“Hands,” she said, and although he could easily see the cord she held - it was hard to miss when she was straddling him, pulling it to its full length between her hands - he offered them up, and bit his lip against a hiss when she bound his wrists a little too tightly.

“You are rather cautious,” he said, shifting his hips beneath her as he tried to identify the feeling churning in his stomach as simple nervousness or as slow-awakening lust.

Haleth laughed, her tongue poking out between her teeth a little as she adjusted the knots; not exactly beautiful, but the sight stirred a heat within him that was clear enough to recognize, finally.

“I don’t trust anyone, now.” She grinned at him again, and it sent a flood of quite different warmth through him - damn it, he was blushing again, and she laughed a little. “But I must say it’s more your high-and-mighty manner than your possible menace that put this idea into my head, Lord Caranthir.”

The title sounded lightly mocking on her lips, considering that she was pinning his bound wrists up above his head with one hand, tracing his flushed face with the fingertips of the other. “Pretty,” she said absently, like a child admiring a flower. Caranthir felt a bone-deep shudder go through him, and he involuntarily jerked his wrists against her restraining hand.

Haleth looked up at him, attention returned, and there was a glitter in her eyes that made his face turn even more red.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice low as she mimicked his question from before.

A bevy of answers flickered through his mind - to be something more than the least and darkest of his brothers, to have the power to turn back time (plead Nerdanel to stay; to never marry for only the sake of marrying; to stay by his grandfather’s side instead of fleeing with the rest) - but they are not anything to be given voice. And it strikes him, suddenly, that the slow pulse of heat in his groin is telling him that this, this he wants; that the dirt-stained walls of an Edain tent and the scratched and scarred hands of an Edain girl with hunger in her eyes and command in her voice were more pleasing to him than fine rooms and a fine, beautiful (unloving) wife in Valinor.

He arched under her hands as she parted his tunic, and hoarse with realization answered her.

“You, lady.”

Haleth laughed. “That I like to hear,” she said.


	7. Sound and Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request for Sauron/Finrod dubcon. Came out surprisingly non-smutty.

Finrod had tasted utter darkness before; wandering deep into the caves, losing his light - he could still remember the damp press of shadows around him, as if they were truly a weight that could be felt.

But that darkness, although fearful, had been somewhat clean - and safe, compared to the one he was bound in now. Although he had more a hand in the building of this tower than he had in the shaping of Nargothrond, there was no comfort in this place for him. The shadows wrapped around him were dank and stinking, his wrists smarting from the rub of the chains, and the weight on him was Sauron’s hands on his shoulders.

“So lovely,” Sauron said thoughtfully, stirring echoes in Finrod’s mind he does not care for, and a thin-fingered hand combs through Finrod’s long hair.

The werewolf that lingered near him has retreated for the moment, but his hearing has grown so sensitive in the dark that he can make out its footsteps as it circled them at a distance; and he can hear the occasional noise from his companions, although he cannot tell how far away they are.

The hand tightens in his hair, pulls it back, and his eyes hurt at the sudden glow of Sauron’s eyes, the only light in the darkness.

“There is something familiar about you,” Sauron muses, fingertips sweeping over Finrod’s face as if he was not able to see - but surely he was, with his eyes casting such a glow. Finrod pressed his lips tight together as he tried to endure the touch, and neither pull away from it or lean into it.

After so long in the dark, with only the occasional brush of the werewolf’s fur, his body hungered for touch, for the subtle light Sauron carried with him even if it burned his eyes. Finrod’s tongue flickers out over his dry lips, involuntary motion, and Sauron’s eyes track it, a slight smile curving his mouth.

“Vanyar gold,” he says, as if thinking aloud, and then his lips press against Finrod’s jaw, warm and soft, and when Finrod flinches away Sauron’s hand twists in his hair, dragging his head back; and his mouth it at Finrod’s pulse, gently suckling, and Finrod does not want to believe the whine he hears is spilling from his lips. Sauron laughs, teeth scraping against Finrod’s skin, and barely draws back; his breath hot against Finrod’s ear, voice low and amused.

“Now, I wonder who you could be?”

He knows.

Finrod shuts his lips tightly against further sounds, against questions and anger at Sauron’s drawing-out of this slow, painful - game, as it seemed to be for the Maiar. But he cannot shut out or squirm away from the deliberate motion of Sauron’s hands, warm caresses over his stomach (drifting dangerously low), outlining his hips; and because he is bound, he does not know whether he truly wants to. That is torture even more than the touches.

And Sauron seems to know that - a low, sweet laugh sounds in his ear. “What if,” the maiar says, “I unbound you, fair Felagund?”

There is no longer pretense there, but Finrod finds no relief in that; Sauron’s voice continues, a poisonously sweet mutter.

“What if I took you to my bed? It would be more familiar to your body than stone and iron - soft silks and rich colors, to frame your pale skin and lovely hair… Would you really try to resist me? I do not think so; I have much skill in bending and shaping elves to my will, and you are not one to resist temptation too long…” Teeth lightly nip at Finrod’s throat, and a hiss escapes his lips; Sauron chuckles. “I would take such pleasure in you,” he continued hungrily. “Coaxing you to scream for me - not with pain, but with pleasure; and oh, your humiliation would be sweeter still.”

A shudder runs through Finrod’s body, and sweat is going cold on his skin; but he dares not speak, until finally Sauron rises.

“Perhaps,” he says, with another laugh, “you should reconsider your silence,” and is gone into the shadows.

Finrod closes his eyes against the lack of light, feeling his sweat beginning to chill his skin, and knows that whether he speaks or no, Sauron will return as he sees it enjoyable.

He prays that there will be no screaming tonight, and tells himself the trembling in his limbs is fear alone, and it is only Sauron’s lingering spirit that would disguise it as craving.


	8. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ambarussa has a secret, the one thing that separates him from his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was for syrisa.

Since the first day they had discovered that their mother had intended them to share a name, the twins had been unseperable; playing, hunting, doing everything side by side, calling each other by the same name. 

Years later, when they were old enough that women were taking notice of them, they still seemed to be two parts of a whole; and in many ways, they were. But some days, when one of the twins was buried in a book or project, the other would rise and head for the door, making some vague excuse. 

It was on these days, as he slipped out on the streets and felt a scary, slightly giddy thrill at being alone, that Ambarussa called his brother 'Ambarto' in his mind. He wanted them to be separate - just for a few hours, just while he was occupied in something that he knew his twin wouldn't want anything to do with. 

It was his private pleasure, his and his alone, because he'd split off once when they were younger, because he'd wanted to see Indis even if Atar didn't like her. Because she happened to have Ingwë visiting. 

"Who cares?" his twin had said, puzzled, when Ambarussa reported this. "We've seen him at ceremonies and things."

Ambarussa hadn't tried to argue further. 

He much preferred to have this to himself, after all. He'd had to work for a while, making up excuses to go see Ingwë, to get it - and it was worth it. 

Ingwë's eyes lit up when he saw Ambarussa at the door, and he laid aside his materials; he had been illuminating a manuscript, Ambarussa saw, and rubbed his fingers together to dust off powdered gold as he approached the younger elf. It clung to his white robe, and Ambarussa's eyes lingered there for a moment before going back to Ingwë's face. 

"I've been looking forward to seeing you again," Ingwë said; and then, seeing how Ambarussa was fidgeting, smiled slightly - a touch of indulgence to it, that reminded Ambarussa of how much older Ingwë was than him - and gestured towards the inner chambers, more private ones not so pierced with windows and doors. "Do you wish to talk more privately?"

"Very much," Ambarussa said, casting a quick glance up from under his eyelashes (Írissë had told him he had lovely eyelashes), and Ingwë's laugh was almost unnoticeably shaky. 

~

Maitimo would tell him he was too young. 

Fëanáro would, he was certain, be upset that it wasn't just a Vanyar, it was Ingwë, Indis' uncle, supported of Finwë's second marriage. 

Ambarto would just be puzzled, phrases like nice but boring and obsessed with Manwë and old as Grandfather coming up. 

Ambarussa was as strong-willed as any of his brothers, though, and he liked the way Ingwë looked leaning back in a broad-backed chair, golden hair spilling down and loose over his shoulders as he removed his circlet; he liked the way Ingwë loosened his muscles, half-sat, half-lay languid in the chair, watching Ambarussa with hooded eyes. 

He liked the flash in those eyes when he started shedding his clothes. 

Even now, he's not entirely sure how he managed to pull off seducing the High King of All Elves, how he had the courage to even start; but it was unquestionably worth the effort. And obsessed with Manwë Ingwë might be, but Ambarussa had his suspicions about what form that obsession took, the reason Ingwë appeared so pure and calm and yet could be excited to such desire. 

Already his blue eyes were a little darker, watching Ambarussa, and he raised a slender hand, beckoning him closer. Ambarussa approached, a shiver going through his body as his knees brushed against Ingwë's robe and the elf king tilted back his head to look at him. 

This was another thing he loved; Ingwë's eyes, that appeared so pale and empty at a distance (and when he was staring at Manwë, as if in those moments his soul had flown from his body) were cool and deep in these moments, like the pool Tyelkormo had taken them too when they had learned to swim, deceptively clear but treacherously abyssal. 

"What are you thinking?" Ingwë asked, his voice quiet, and his cool fingertips settled on Ambarussa's bare back. The younger elf took a moment to think; he'd learned early on that not being truthful lost Ingwë's interest more quickly than anything else, bar insulting the Valar or Vanyar. 

"What is it like," he asked, on impulse, "to have seen the stars?"

"In Middle-Earth..." Ingwë tilted his head back, thinking; his fingers traced delicate patterns over Ambarussa's back, as if he was planning the flourishes of a letter on one of his manuscripts (part of Ambarussa wishes he could convince Ingwë to write on his skin, marking him with the same coolly elegant touch he brought to everything). "They were brighter," he said at last, "so much brighter, because the sky was darker. No light from the Trees..."

Ambarussa, body humming impatiently, begun to undo the soft-knotted ties of Ingwë's outer robe. "Did you have a day?" The stars he had seen had seemed so small and pale, not sufficient light to do anything by. 

"They'd change. Some of them would be brighter - seem larger." A little of the distance in Ingwë's eyes went away and he smiled, pulling Ambarussa a little closer. "But if you are asking to be one of the few who know and remember, it is... lonely and beautiful. I miss them less than some, though."

"Lonely and beautiful," Ambarussa repeated quietly, spreading his fingers against Ingwë's bared skin; callused fingertips against smooth white, now, and the graceful curve of a breastbone, but he knew that lower down there were scars. Lonely, beautiful and dangerous. Like keeping secrets from another part of yourself; or at least that's as close as he came to it. 

He doesn't waste more time on words (although he knows Ingwë would protest if he calls it 'wasting') but dips his head to suck at the elder elf's neck; Ingwë's eyes fluttered closed, and with a sigh his hands began to drift lower on Ambarussa's back, his touch firmer. 

His twin might not understand; but for the moment they are separate, and it is Ambarussa and Ambarussa alone who is straddling Ingwë's lap, recieving his kisses, fire-eager and awakening the older elf's more slow-burning desire. 

Ambarussa captures the three words in his mind, savoring them along with Ingwë's kiss. 

Beautiful, lonely, dangerous. 

For the moment, Ingwe's hands in his hair are as close as he gets to the stars.


	9. On the forest floor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beleg attempts to flirt with Nellas and gets more than he bargained for. Beleg/Nellas, aged-up Nellas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nellas is more the equivalent of an elvish teenager in this.

"So, I came to tell you that Túrin’s ankle is still healing and he won’t be able to come out into the woods for another day or so." Beleg turned his head slightly, following the noise in the underbrush. “Mind coming out so I can see you? It makes me jumpy when you’re hidden while we talk."

They didn’t talk all that much, but Nellas slowly complied to his request; the bushes in front of him parted after a moment and she slipped out, adjusting the simple shift-like dress she wore, eyes downcast. She was a pretty girl despite her awkwardness, with pieces of leaf and flower caught in her long brown hair, and Beleg smiled at her when he managed to catch her eye. She looked away again immediately, cheeks red.

"Is he hurt very badly?" she asked, her voice soft. “I didn’t mean to take him somewhere dangerous; I’ve walked over those rocks a hundred times without slipping…"

"No, his ankle is only twisted. It should be fine." Beleg pulled a face. “And don’t blame yourself - Túrin… doesn’t have very good luck."

Nellas nodded, shuffling her feet among the mulch on the forest floor, then turned away. “I’d better go," she said, her voice small.

Beleg cocked his head to the side; it practically pained him to see her acting so shy all the time. Not that she wasn’t entitled to her privacy, but… “Why don’t you sit with me for a minute?" he asked, glancing around and finding a half-flat rock that made a passable seat. “I could use the company."

Nellas hesitated, but finally approached and sat on the rock beside him, still not looking directly at him; she stared at her hands instead, fiddling a piece of twig between her fingers.

Smiling a little at her shyness, Beleg reached out and brushed some of her hair back behind her hair, causing petals to drift to the ground. He wondered if any of her quietude was due to him; he had met a fair few people who were speechless the first time they met, although usually things improved quickly when they discovered how friendly Beleg was (and sometimes things improved even more that night).

"If you’re nervous because of me, you don’t have to be," he said gently. “You ought to have fun more - you’re a beautiful young girl, and -"

She looked up at him with a flicker-like swiftness that startled him.

"You… think that I am beautiful?" Her brown eyes searched his earnestly, as if she could read the truth from behind them.

Beleg grinned, encouraged by the direct eye contact. “Of course."

Nellas began breaking the twig she held into pieces, furrowing her brow before she spoke; it seemed hard for her to find the right words. He was reminded again that she was a little different from the elves that lived in Doriath, although where the difference lay - in her bloodline or in her own mind - was not clear.

"I do not know how to ask…" she said awkwardly, and seemed on the verge of tears from frustration.

Beleg scooted closer, putting his arm around her, and rubbed her back gently to try and help her calm down. Nellas stiffened, then relaxed into the touch, peeking up at him.

"Beleg?" she finally said, after a pause of a moment or two.

"Yes?" She didn’t usually use his name.

"Beautiful. You say I am beautiful. Do you mean…" She seemed to search for terms again. “Child-beautiful or woman-beautiful?"

"Well…" He scooted back slightly so he could look at her. Nellas made an effort not to look away, although her cheeks turned bright red.

She was almost as tall as he was, and although her loose dress did not play it up, her body was curved, hips wide and breasts full-grown. And although she might find children easier to be around… Beleg respected her remarkable store of forest-knowledge, and the blush on her face seemed to indicate that she wasn’t lacking in knowledge of certain other things, either.

"Woman-beautiful," he gave his verdict, and smiled at her.

Nellas nibbled on her bottom lip. “Really?"

Beleg raised an eyebrow. “Why?" An idea struck him, and his smile got a bit broader. “Are you finally growing interested in womanly matters?"

The rest of the twig dropped to the forest floor. “I…" Her words came out a little more strongly. “Yes, I have noticed that I feel - things." Nellas’ glance at him this time was not quite so shy. “When you are around. Do you mind?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m flattered! I thought I’d finally found someone immune to my charms."

She took note of his grin. “You are joking."

"Flirting, flower. It’s called flirting."

With a frown, she stood up. “I don’t understand. I did not want to… talk more. You are always joking at me."

Beleg leant back a little, feeling cheerful. “If you aren’t interested in flirting, what do you want.

She had been so shy he hadn’t thought she was the type to kiss someone right away.

And if he had, he would have guess some soft, shy peck on the lips; not a full, devouring kiss that made him let out a moan of surprised pleasure, hands rising to touch the silkiness of her hair, catch on the petals and leaves still tangled in it.

A minute later, Nellas left him gasping for breath as she straightened up, cheeks still red and hands tangled in her skirt. “I want that," she declared.

Beleg laughed breathlessly; the stone was rough against his back, but he liked the glitter in Nellas’ eyes. He could stand the discomfort.

"Consider me more than willing," he said, and barely had a moment more to consider what a mystery she was before she descended on him, white skirt hiked up to her tanned knees as she straddled his lap.

Her breath was still quick and nervous, but her hands eager, and she took the lead with surprising fierceness, plucking at the ties to his tunic as she kissed him, awkward hunger in her every motion. Beleg submitted, mind swimming with unexpected pleasure as his body responded; he was more than willing to follow instead of lead for once, enjoying both equally, but he hadn’t expected to find that kind of thing here.

Perhaps, with all his fondness and respect for her, he still hadn’t given Nellas half the credit she was due - and his thoughts broke off with a strangled gasp as she slipped deft fingers beneath his belt and waistband and stroked him to full hardness, her lips going from his mouth to his throat.

Beleg bucked into her touch, allowed himself to be pushed back against the rock, and, looking up at the tanned face above him (wild hair, shining eyes, and a mouth for once lifting in a more bold smile than she usually allowed herself) her was, for a moment, glad that Túrin had a day of bed rest.

~

Túrin had managed to fall out of bed and almost injure his ankle further while Beleg was out, but luckily Melian and Thingol had been around and Melian had fixed it, but ordered him to stay in bed. He had hoped that Beleg would be back soon; but it was getting dark, and Túrin was fidgeting and thinking about trying to get up again, before Beleg made an appearance.

He was humming to himself, and his eyes were oddly unfocused, as if he was staring at something far off.

"I thought you were going to be back sooner," Túrin muttered, not a little annoyed; but Beleg only patted him absent-mindedly on the head and slumped into a nearby chair.

"Where have you been?" Túrin asked, eying him in confusion. Beleg looked strangely pleased and worn out.

"Just in the forest," Beleg answered, eyes focusing on him for a moment. “Nellas sends her best wishes."

"All right." Túrin curled up under the covers, and Beleg was normal enough to kiss him on the forehead and bid him goodnight; but something was off.

"Beleg, you’ve got leaves in your hair."

Beleg grinned, glancing out the window for some reason.

"I... don't really mind."


	10. Abuse of Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor holds a part of all the powers of his kindred. Melkor/Fëanor, warning for non-con.

If he had approached Fëanáro any other way, Melkor was sure that he would be rebuffed; the elf had made it clear that he was not welcome anyway near him. 

  
But his dear, incomprehensible father had chosen to give him a part of each one of his brethren’s powers, and nobody had been able to take them away.

  
  
He wondered whether Irmo ever used his powers in this fashion, as he looked up at the lamps darkening in Fëanáro’s house; the thought amused him, as did any consideration that his kindred were hiding private vices behind their oh-so-perfect facades. Sleep and dreams were so delicate, thin threads of powers that nobody less attuned than a Valar could notice without looking for it, and yet they were so deliciously powerful.   
  
Manwë would not be aware of much for a while tonight - as much as his brother liked to boast of being all-seeing, they all played slaves to Time now that they lived in Arda, and Melkor held quite enough power to gently suggest to Manwë that his night was better spent attending to Varda, or Ingwë or frankly anyone available, instead of keeping a close eye on the elves.   
  
He spun the cloud-colored net of sleep between his fingers and it enveloped the house like a creeping mist as the last lamp but one died out. Melkor could sense the minds inside the house surrendering to it one by one; and as the last mind fell, in the room with the single lit lamp, he coaxed the door-lock open with a word that spoke to its metal and his lordship of it, and stepped inside unseen by any eye.   
  
Melkor trailed his fingers against the wall as he mounted the stairs, smiling at the idea of leaving a burn on the white stone, black and deliciously asymmetrical; but no, he never left traces and he did not intend to start now. Tomorrow, he knew that Fëanáro would search the house for any sign that someone had entered, and Melkor would not give him that peace of mind.   
  
Fëanáro had fallen asleep at his desk, his face troubled and his head pillowed on one arm; the pen he was holding had left a smear of ink across the paper, pleasing to the eye in its contrast to the neat calligraphy that preceded it. Breathing catching a little in anticipation, Melkor stood behind the chair, and reaching out pulled Fëanáro back so his back was against Melkor, head resting on his chest. Cupping Fëanáro’s head between his hands, Melkor concentrated; he despised the frail machinations of sleep, in contrast to the hard and immediate pleasures of dominating by sheer force, but for this purpose… he needed to be a little more subtle. He smiled in pleasure as Fëanáro’s eyes half-opened; the elf was faintly aware now, but still asleep in all but that sense.  
  
The feeling of power was enchanting; what he missed most in his day-to-day life as he played the repentant spirit, the dutiful brother, the kind teacher. In this moment he held utter sway over Fëanáro, his most outspoken opponent, and he intended to take advantage of it. Whatever he wished Fëanáro to remember he would, or vice versa.   
  
"Here you sit," he said gently, conversationally into Fëanáro’s ear, “lost in your work, while your half-brothers steal everything you have…" Melkor mouthed at the crook of Fëanáro’s neck almost absent-mindlessly, enjoying the feel of the skin beneath his lips. The elf made a troubled noise, stirring, but the spell that lay over him was strong.   
  
"You neglect your father, caught up in your own troubles, and Nolofinwë poisons his mind against you, stealing your kingship piece by piece." Fëanáro was wearing robes, for once, in lieu of his usual breeches; it was easy to part the folds of them. “Foolish, for all you think yourself wise."  
  
Fëanáro gasped softly as Melkor took his cock in hand; the Vala laughed quietly. “You have already lost your wife; and one by one you are losing the loyalty of your sons."  
  
In all honesty, this part - feeling Fëanáro harden in his hand, winding fingers in his hair and pulling his head back so he could savor the changing expressions on the elf’s face - was not necessary. It would be simpler to just whisper the messages he needed Fëanáro to believe in his ear, night after night.   
  
He smiled, a slash of hatred and amusement across his face.   
  
"So bright, so promising," he mused, deviating from his usual script for the moment, let his fingers slip down from Fëanáro’s hair, rest against his throat. The elf’s pulse seemed so distant and fragile beneath his fingertips when compared to the hammerblow heartbeats of his kin, and Melkor knew that he could crush it in a second. “And oh, so angry, hungry for freedom. Unwilling to listen to any counsel but your own, hm?"   
  
He laughed quietly. “But here, Fëanáro son of Finwë, you belong to me, are slave to my power and mewl for my touch, no matter how you despise it." Melkor tightened his grip a little to prove the point, smiling as a soft cry escaped Fëanáro’s mouth.   
  
"I will not kill you," he added in a generous tone, withdrawing his hand from Fëanáro’s throat; he smoothed back his black hair from his flushed face, placing a deceptively gently kiss on his forehead. “You will destroy yourself, or you will come to me in the end."   
  
Fëanáro shivered, frown lines appearing between his half-open eyes as if he heard what was said, and disagreed with it, even through the fog his mind was wrapped in. Still, even that made Melkor smile; this had been how he had reacted, with faint protest, when Melkor had first begun whispering accusations towards his brother and others into his ear at night. Now, as Melkor took up the usual cadence again, he shuddered, whimpers that would never escape him if he were aware leaving his lips, but Melkor could almost feel his mind drinking in the words obediently.   
  
"Your eldest’s mind is turned to Nolofinwë," he murmured, “one of your sons keeps company with a Vala far too much for comfort…" Fëanáro arched beneath Melkor’s quickened strokes, teeth gritting in a mixture of arousal and anger. “Ah yes, the Valar, whom you live under the mastery of. You know the truth, do you not? That they keep Middle-Earth from you so that usurpers, lesser beings can inhabit it, that they only value you as worshipers and will never allow you to be free…"  
  
On and on the poisoned litany went; Melkor trailed open-mouthed kisses lazily over Fëanáro’s straining shoulders, far more gently than he would like.   
  
How he hungered to bite, to leave bruises, to give his lust free rein; it would be so terribly sweet to defile Fëanáro utterly, to thrust in that proud full-lipped mouth until he choked. If he had the time and the place, he was confident he could break the elven lord, and, “Void and Arda," Melkor groaned, brushing his mouth against Fëanáro’s, “you would be so tempting, so beautiful when broken."   
  
To his shock, Fëanáro not only shuddered, but his teeth sank into Melkor’s lip; the dark Vala hissed, drawing back, but Fëanáro did not awaken, for all his mouth was now twisted in anger; perhaps their minds had brushed too close together, and he had glimpsed what Melkor wished to do to him. Licking the blood from his lip, Melkor gave a harsh chuckle.   
  
"But you are far more entertaining when you are proud," he said.   
  
Still, he would not leave without some kind of retaliation; he pulled Fëanáro’s robes back to leave almost his entire body bare, and pushed the chair back to allow Melkor to drop to one knee before him. He took Fëanáro’s cock into the heat of his mouth, rolling the tip over his tongue slowly; he savored the stiffening of Fëanáro’s body, the moan that escaped his lips. Reaching up, he caressed Fëanáro’s chest, lightly pinching a nipple; but he had little desire for foreplay.   
  
Melkor had not placed himself in this position for some time, but he still remembered to use tongue and throat to great effect; he suckled hard, lapped and lashed with his tongue, and drank in the tremble of Fëanáro’s body like wine. He knew that some part of Fëanáro recognized him, was aware of what was happening, and he knew that there was nothing the elf could do in his half-asleep state, and he yearned to burn the memory of it into his mind.  
  
 _Mighty Fëanáro, arrogant Fëanáro_ , Melkor said in his mind, letting his mind brush against the elf’s, and swallowed, and Fëanáro bucked into the touch and his hands tightened on the arms of his chair desperately and a sound of hate and pleasure leaked out between his gritted teeth.   
  
He could tell the elf was on the brink of spilling, and so lifted his mouth from his cock, pinching it around the base with thumb and forefinger; Fëanáro whimpered, and Melkor chuckled.   
  
"Nay, I think I will allow you to come for me some other time," he told him softly. “When I have you in my stronghold, and you have forsaken all your pride and beg for it, when I have had my way with your sweet mouth and well-formed body."  
  
He rose to his feet; it had been some time, and he could not afford to push his luck.   
  
"Until then, Fëanáro son of Finwë, let that fire you hold burn bright with anger; I have given you enough reason for it."  
  
~   
  
Fëanáro awoke with a start.   
  
To his immediate chagrin, he found he had fallen asleep at the desk, and knocked over an inkwell; it had ruined the document, soaked one of his sleeves, and even marked his neck and shoulder faintly, as if he had touched it in his sleep.   
  
Next to his attention was the painful ache between his legs; he blessed the fact that he had awoken early, and could make it to the baths without running into anyone.   
  
It was only when he had stripped down and stood in the water that he found his hands shaking.   
  
With… anger? He was not sure. He felt strange, unclean, and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Shaking his head angrily, he ducked under the water; he half-expected something to flash across his mind when he closed his eyes, but there was nothing.   
  
The ink that marked his shoulder and neck in uneven, bruise-like blotches did not come off easily, but as he concentrated and breathed slowly his arousal and the strange shuddering both began to fade. Leaning against the wall, Fëanáro took another deep breath, trying to clear his head. He did not think there had been an intruder, although his nerves were raw and his body hummed with a feeling of violation; there was no sign of one, and surely he would not have slept through someone entering his room.   
  
Perhaps he had dreamed - had a nightmare and forgotten it. It was not if he had a lack of material to worry over; Nolofinwë’s likely treachery, the ever-present threat of the Valar that ruled them all… and Melkor.   
  
He wasn’t sure why, but at that last thought his hands began to shake again.


End file.
